Squark of a Palmer
by Darkest Fire
Summary: Cecil Palmer, next Voice of Night Vale Community Radio, rescues a young boy in England during college. Of course, this boy happens to be a wizard. Stranger things have happened in Night Vale. Poor, poor Hogwarts. You were expecting Harry Potter, but got Raven Palmer instead.
1. The Child

Chapter One

The Child

Cecil Palmer, eighteen years old, was travelling around Europe during his break from college.

Today was the day before Valentine's Day.

And he couldn't find his hotel.

As the sun began to set, Cecil wandered down the identical labyrinths that the locals called streets and was starting to panic. He didn't want to die in the inevitable bloodbath that tomorrow would always become, especially just as a person caught in the crossfire.

He imagined choking on heart-shaped confetti or being blown up by a pink card, most likely depicting teddy bears.

Shuddering at the images of his untimely demise, the blonde began to walk a bit faster, trying to suck up the courage to knock on a door and ask for directions. He would have to be courageous to be the next Voice, after all.

The tentacle tattoos wound around his chest tighter and he could feel the slight squeeze. Wrapping his arms around his self, Cecil rubbed his sides in a vain effort to relax them.

As he wandered on to, yet another, row of identical buildings, Cecil decided enough was enough and wandered up the driveway of the nearest house. Number four. Lingering on the mat (depicting the word ' **WELCOME** ' in black plastic glued to the brown bristles), he shifted his weight to his other foot before knocking on the door.

A handful of tense moments passed and Cecil turned to leave, when the door was yanked open and a screech penetrated his eardrums-

"WE DON'T WANT WHAT YOU'RE SELLING!"

Cecil turned back, "I'm not selling anything, miss." She was an ugly creature, akin to a horse than a person with an absurdly long neck. This 'woman' stepped back,

"American?" she asked, a slightly dreamy tone in her voice, her whole attitude changing drastically. After he signalled affirmative with a nod, she stood aside and gestured for him to come inside, "What are you doing in England, stranger?"

She curled a lock of hair around a finger and smirked coyly. Forcing himself not to wrinkle his nose in disgust (after all, a radio host must be polite), Cecil smiled and answered,

"I'm travelling Europe, but I'm lost. Do you think you could direct me to this hotel?" He held out a scrap of paper with the hotel's name written on it. She sighed and led him into the living room. He saw a small child on the stairs, and waved to him. He didn't wave back.

"If I wasn't married, you could stay here. Let me see." After handing the woman the paper, Cecil began to look around. He cringed as he caught the dark purple eyes of his reflection and hurriedly shifted his gaze down, his mother's words racing through his head.

 _Someone is going to kill you one day Cecil, and it will involve a mirror._

Raising an eyebrow at the pictures on the mantelpiece - who would dress up a beach ball? –he couldn't spot that child from before in the pictures.

"Oh, I didn't get your name." He called out, over his shoulder and still frowning at the pictures.

"Petunia Dursley, at your service," She giggled, coming to stand next to him, pen in hand. Distracted by her use of a forbidden product, Cecil momentarily forgot about the missing child.

"Cecil Palmer." She just giggled again, before looking at what had him fixated,

"That's my son, Dudley. Isn't he just a perfect angel?" The beach ball? A child? Shocked, he slipped his directions from her hand and into his jeans pocket.

"Yes," he replied, distractedly, "Where's the other boy?"

"What boy?" She snapped, voice growing cold, "There is no other boy here." Cecil eyed her out the corner of his eyes and plastered a smile on his face.

"I must have been mistaken, my mistake." She huffed,

"Yes, it must have been." His fake smiled widened,

"Excuse me, I must be off Petunia. Thank you for the directions."

On the other side of the front door, Cecil frowned as he felt her stare on his back and began to walk away.

The sun had set in his, admittedly brief, interaction with Mrs Dursley, street lights illuminated the paved streets and Cecil could shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

Maybe it was the sky; mostly stars, partially void.

Maybe it was the date: she seemed too accepting to have him in her house - it was Valentine's Day tomorrow!

Maybe it was the lack of the Faceless-Old-Woman-Who-Secretly-Lives-In-Your-Home in that home.

Maybe it was the mirror: on display and not covered in a dusty old sheet, to be feared whenever you passed it.

Maybe it was the fact that no helicopters circled the sky, not even one painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey diving.

Maybe it was that child on the stairs, pale as any ghost he'd seen with only three shocks of colour on him: his emerald eyes, dark hair and a red cut on his cheek; hidden by the messy, dirty hair.

Fuck.

He was at the end of the next street when he came to that realisation. He'd never be the next Voice if he couldn't spot things as important as this. Cecil turned on his heel and ran back to Privet Drive.

When he got to number four, he stopped and pressed his ear against the door. The stern, icy tones of Petunia where accompanied by a quiet whimpering.

Nestled safely in the hollow of his throat, one half-finished tattoo of a runic eye sleepily blinked open while his organic eyes rolled up into his head.

And he was watching from a vantage point on the staircase.

The boy from before was knelt on the floor in front of the door under the stairs. Cecil bared his teeth, wishing that they could see him watching them, as the raven-haired one flinched back against the door when Petunia approached.

"Why did you show yourself to that man, Freak?" The boy just whimpered and scooted back more, so the dirty soles of his feet where flat against the painted door.

"Answer me, boy!"

His eyes snapped open and Cecil barged through the door.

Petunia stood over the child, hand raised over her head and poised to strike. Her head snapped to him and their gazes locked.

A snarl burst from his lips and his meagre amount of tattoos went wild. Purple tentacles curled up the column of his neck and creeped up the sides of his face, twisting furiously. He shook as he strode forward, the door crashing shut behind him.

"Get away from that child." His voice was low and dangerous; a mother bear protecting her cubs.

Petunia shrunk against the wall and the toddler stood up, managing to stifle his cries, before slowly walking to him.

The child clung to his leg and Cecil growled at her when she stepped forward, a low, guttural sound from the base of his throat. He didn't know why he was acting like this, but the boy reminded him of himself.

More or less alone in the world, where you are hurt by those who were supposed to be looking after you- either mentally or physically.

But nobody had helped Cecil.

So he was going to help that child. He growled again and Petunia backed into the living room. With the threat out of reach, he scooped the boy into his arms, turned and shoved the door open.

Cecil Palmer strode into the darkness.


	2. The Park

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

Sorry this took so long, exams coming up and homework has been doubled. :|

* * *

Chapter 2

The Park

The more he stared down at the toddler sleeping against his chest, the more Cecil wondered what had possessed him to take him. He shook his head, dislodging the thoughts which had been at the forefront of his mind since he had turned off of Privet Drive. He had to find this hotel, and fast.

Cecil was entertaining the idea of giving the adorable babe to the authorities. They would help him if they were anything like the Sheriff's Secret Police. However, if there was any of the Secret Police in England, Cecil would have already said goodbye to the child.

After all, they wouldn't have asked any questions and, after the emerald eyed one was sorted out, they would all drink to forget.

If only.

He sighed as he leaned against a streetlight, its artificial light casting shadows of a beast against the ground. Adding to the beast's bulk was the shadow of Cecil's backpack, it rested against his calf.

The toddler was too light, it wasn't natural nor healthy. His tattoos had calmed over time and retracted to a resting place beneath his clothes. One small tentacle, thinner than the rest, stole down the arm which supported the boys back. The end twirled around the pointer finger and stopped, unable to touch the child. It seemed disappointed, by how if wilted and curled up in the middle of the back of Cecil's hand.

A bird cawed in the distance, but was ignored.

Cecil checked his directions again, whispering the instructions to himself while ignoring the phone number hastily scribbled at the bottom and pushed off the post. A tricky manoeuvre was accomplished, in which he almost dropped the toddler twice, and his ghastly yellow and orange polka dot backpack was shrugged on.

The shadow beast stalked him as he walked, never overtaking and never less than one step behind.

Chills ran up Cecil's back as the darkness deepened and he walked away from the light.

Soon after, he was stationary again. Neon lights, which hurt his amethyst eyes, spelt out 'Park Ho el'. The't' had stopped illuminating and now seemed to hang back, like a reclusive friend at a house party. Or, alternatively, The-Faceless-Old-Woman-Who-Secretly-Lives-In-Your-Home when you have acquaintances with a blood stone circle over at your place on the gibbous moon of autumn.

This was it.

Hoisting the child more secure into one of his arms, he pushed the painted door open. The paint, its colour undiscernible, peeled in thin strips that curled and twisted like a dying flame – desperate to cling on to its existence. And slammed his eyes shut.

Pain blossomed behind the blonde's eyelids at the sudden influx of light. Whimpering out a pathetic "Ow.", Cecil slowly forced his watering eyes open.

When his eyes had adjusted, Cecil noticed that the inside was almost as bad as the outside: damp badly hidden with furniture, mouldy carpets that didn't fit the room and hastily slapped on paint which was few shades off the original cerulean. Cecil simultaneously did and didn't want to know what the mismatched paint was covered.

It must have been the reporter in him; ready to burst from him chest, to be the next radio show presenter.

He let himself be swept away by his unnecessarily hopeful thoughts. He didn't need to be hopeful when it was prophesised he would be the next Voice of Night Vale.

He grounded himself from his visions after a few seconds, adjusted his grip on the child and strode to the front desk.

A beast crafted from shadows morphed into a sooty projection of Cecil.

A woman lounged in the office chair, popping blue gum.

She didn't look up until he coughed to get her attention, her talons seemingly desperate for yet another heavy coating of red polish. In reality, the surface was raised from the nail and both hands looked decent. Except for the eczema on the right wrist that was vainly hidden behind a sweat band.

"Name?" She asked with a weary sigh, typing with one hand as Cecil was checked in his details and not nearly looking worried enough for Valentine's Day to start in a few short hours – she didn't once enquire about the toddler and happily waved them towards the stairs.

The elevator was broken. Typical.

He trotted up the stairs, stopping every now and again to shift the child into a more secure position, until he reached floor four.

The walls were clad in wall paper depicting strange designs: gears, generic hearts hollowed on one side, suns with curving rays and what seemed like a wave with another curled under it. The colours were faded into the same dirty lemon of the rest of the wall paper and many other symbols only vaguely visible.

Cecil stepped carefully, being sure to test the floor boards and avoid the ones that would groan and wake the child.

He counted the maroon doors until he got to his own. There he twisted the key in the lock and opened room '413'.

* * *

Did anyone get the blaringly obvious references? :)

(I'm so sorry)


	3. Bloodstone Circles

Chapter 3

Bloodstone Circles

The next week was spent trying to get rid of the kid after Valentine's Day.

That was spent in the hotel room, curled in the corner while nothing happened outside. Cecil was not sure why that was. Was it a leap year? Special circumstances? It definitely wasn't a full moon and Valentine's Day only didn't happen when Valentine's Day was on a full moon. It had only happened once when the full moon rolled around and the devastation was worse than normal.

The police refused to take him, the said that the boy was his and Cecil was getting annoyed by them.

 _A teenager walked into the police station, a young boy in his arms. The officer behind the desk took in the white hair and purple eyes. He must have been seventeen – with an angular face and delicate bone structure._

 _He glanced over the tattoos that seemed to shift. A tentacle moved._

 _The officer suddenly stared at the still tattoos, shaken. He shook his head and sighed – maybe he shouldn't have pulled that all-nighter last night._

 _Sergeant James Barnes nodded to him and the teen held out the toddler, a hopeful smile on his lips._

 _"_ _Excuse me. I found this kid." He said, voice deeper and smoother than one would have expected when they looked at him. And American. Sergeant Barnes looked over the child, taking in the bruises and plasters. The skinny structure. He glanced at the teen and back down at the boy._

 _Barnes didn't think that he'd found the boy was found, despite the difference in colouring. However, those purple contacts could be hiding green eyes._

 _Both were skinny and pale and delicate._

 _"_ _The plasters?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the teen who just grimaced._

 _"_ _He was bleeding."_

 _Yes, Sgt Barnes didn't think this child was found on the streets at all._

 _"_ _You have to take care of your own mistakes lad." Purple eyes narrowed behind rectangular glasses._

 _"_ _He's not mine. I have to get back to Night Vale soon. My breaks almost over, I have to get back to America and I can't take him with me." The sergeant jus raised his eyebrows again and offered him a temporary passport for the child._

 _Cecil sighed and agreed to come back tomorrow._

A plan didn't come to mind that night and neither did a name.

Now desperate and with a deadline of the next day, Cecil collected his blood stones and cast a circle, settling for an outdated, if traditional, naming process.

Bloodstones were Heliotrope that was crafted into a vague pill like shape. They were shiny and smooth. Engraved into the stone was the symbols for different elements that they represented.

The child watched him set up the circle and slice across the top of his forearm.

Four stones sat at the cardinal points – north, east, south and west – with his blood connecting them. Not wanting to use the boy's blood, but wanting to keep him safe, Cecil dabbed his blood above the boy's nose with his thumb. He then painted blood from that point to his temples, in curves like the top of a stereotypical valentine's heart. It reminded Cecil of a circlet.

He picked up the toddler, hands wrapped around its ribs, and stepped into the circle.

Cecil sat cross legged in the middle with the child in his lap.

He closed his eyes and cradled the boy to his chest, praying that it would work without the sacrifice of a deer or a door to door salesman.

All of his eyes snapped open and Cecil's head tipped back. Fire, wind and water swirled through the air, crafting pictures better than the artisans of Ancient Egypt and the sculptures of Rome.

Water made a constellation above all and wind solidified slightly to connect the 'stars'. Fire danced over his head – telling the stories of myths and magic.

Now earth rose up from the ground, twisting and turning. Forming an animal in flight.

The fire danced faster and closer. The rushing wind grew louder and faster. The watery globes turned into twisters. The bloodstones hovered about at about eyelevel and began to spin, steadily getting faster and emitting different neon lights.

They blurred together.

Faster.

Louder.

Brighter.

His heart raced.

Cecil rocked side to side, slowly. Like he was a snake in front of a charmer.

Knowledge passed through his third eye that glowed brilliantly.

He felt like he had a headache or a hangover.

The fire transformed into a bird and flew in a spiral from the edge of the bloodstone circle until it was a hairs breath from his and the boy's bodies.

The room spun and tilted, sickeningly. Cecil rocked faster.

Spinning.

Twisting.

His heart felt like it would burst from his chest.

And everything stopped. The elements disappeared and the bloodstones collapsed to the floor with an ear splitting crack. He hoped they weren't broken.

Cecil lay on the floor, legs still crossed – breathing heavily, shakily, alive. He felt lightheaded, about to faint. His third eye dimmed and closed and he stared up at the remainder of the magic. Five lights. A constellation.

They hung in position, slowly lowering until they were inches away from his face.

"Corvus, the raven." He murmured, glancing down at the passed out boy on his chest. Raven suited him.

Cecil's eyes rolled upward and he slept.

Elsewhere.

Actually in two 'Elsewheres'.

A pen and a quill both rose on their own.

Two official books opened. One of parchment. The other of paper.

The quill dipped itself in ink and next to a name it penned another.

The pen also wrote a name.

The same name, in fact.

Nobody was there to witness these amendments.

Raven Palmer became a citizen of Night Vale.

I HAVEN'T FORGOT YOU!

This wait for the chapter is a mix of writers block, tests and playing Kingdom Hearts.

LET PLAY GUESS THE EXTREMELY OBVIOUS REFERENCE!


	4. Home

Chapter 4

Home

Cecil awoke in his seedy hotel room. Disorientated, woozy and with a toddler asleep of his chest. He puffed out the breath he was holding and wondered when that had happened.

He was still on the sofa, so he hadn't moved. That must have meant Raven had.

Raven lay face down on Cecil's chest, arms and legs wrapped around him in the parody of a koala.

Wildly grinning, he repressed the urge to squeal – slowly rubbing Raven's back in soothing ovals. Raven, who was shifting up and down with the teen's breaths.

He lay there for a while, not counting time before realizing he had to get to the police station. He had to get a passport for a one way trip to Night Vale. More specifically? New Mexico.

Running a thumb carefully along the child's, his child's, jaw, Cecil marvelled at the rate the wound on Raven's cheekbone had healed. Now nought but a faint scar that was continuing to fade, it was hard to believe a few days ago that blood had ran down Raven's cheek and settled in the hollow of his collar bone and neck.

Yes, Cecil was sure Raven would have next to no trouble fitting in. Even if he was able to feel pain, 47% of Night Vale were born with pain receptors so he wouldn't be alone.

Six hours later, a passport, a lot of rolled eyes and more than two huffed breaths of air, had Cecil and Raven bundled on an airplane. Purple eyes drooped as the eighteen year old rocked Raven against his chest, praying to any old god that he'd just _go to sleep_.

The two year old had started crying when the plane had taken off. Cecil considered it being because of the air pressure decreasing and the pain in Raven's ears. He'd popped his own ears by quickly holding his nose and forcing the air to his ears. However, there was no way he'd try do that with Raven – progress had been made and Raven didn't seem afraid of him.

The judging glares made him flush in indignation and panic more, causing his rocking to become jerky and frustrated tears to well in his eyes. He felt tired to the bone, the only thing keeping him awake was the squalling toddler.

An old lullaby he'd heard from a pen pal from Nulogorsk (Night Vale's sister town in Russia) wormed its way into his brain, like a tumour or a worm which rests in the cranium and chews at the organ there.

His voice dropped low due to his drowsiness and Cecil's head bowed over his child, both eyes only showing a sliver of iris. The one nestled in the hollow of his throat gently glowing.

 _"_ _Sleep, sleep, sleep"_ he crooned lowly, tentacle tattoos unravelling and slowly circling down his arms.

 _"_ _Don't lie too close to the edge of the bed,_

 _Or little grey wolf will come,_

 _Grab you by the flank,_

 _And drag you into the woods,_

 _To under the Willow roots."_

Cecil lay back in his seat, Raven thankfully snoozing in his arms and a few rows in all directions passed out. Unaware of this, Cecil joined the other people in the arms of Morpheus.

He was awoken by a male air hostess (host?) shaking him gently.

"Sir? Please wake up, we'll be preparing to land soon." A large yawn flashed slightly sharp canines and amethyst eyes fluttered open.

The man was a few years older than Cecil, with dark hair and dark eyes. A blush flushed his slightly tanned skin into a healthy glow when he had an embarrassed smile of thanks directed to him.

Cecil secured Raven and pushed himself to an upright position. Green eyes blearily blinked up at him and Cecil grinned down.

The host wriggled his fingers at Raven, getting a tired giggle in reply, and smiled at Cecil.

"Thank you." Cecil murmured, as he buckled his seat belt and prayed to any old god that the descent would be better than the ascent.

It was.

Raven had let out a few whimpers, but yawned – effectively popping his own ears.

Not needing to waste up to an hour collecting suitcases – Cecil stepped out of the airport with his hideously orange backpack that counted as carry-on luggage.

A secret government official met him outside. Cecil nodded at him and watched as he pushed off an arch before following him to a sinister car. It was a step up from an unmarked white van, he supposed, as he slid into the back seat. The officer made no indication to noticing Raven and sat next to him.

The door shut gently and the chauffeur began the drive.

The ride was in comfortable, if slightly awkward silence of all but the drivers built in radio-CD combo playing the weather on repeat. It was as if he was a guilty student refusing to confess to the imposing teacher staring you down; that kind of silence.

The man in the suit next to him (Cecil noticed the perfection of the ironing the charcoal pinstriped pencil skirt had been subjected to and was tempted to show his appreciation, but held his tongue) cleared his throat and turned to him.

"The City Council and the entity that is Night Vale Community Radio Station's Station Management," he began, monotone, but with a voice that was made to be listened to – low and slightly rough, "Are in agreement that, despite your sudden fatherhood of one Raven middle name pending Palmer, you are still prophesised to become the next Voice of Night Vale. Any attempts to cease your internship at Night Vale Community Radio Station, through resignation or death or other but promotion, will be responded by the immediate and indefinite detention or the termination of-" there he cut off and apathetically stared at Cecil before flicking his icy glare to Raven and back up.

Realization sunk in and shock twisted into anger.

The tattooed eye that rested in its proper place on Cecil's forehead snapped open. Not unlike before at the Dursley's residence, the tentacles writhed and twisted in distress. Few wrapped down his arms and hands as if trying to reach the child however many twisted up his neck and face. The arched over his cheeks, a few smaller ones curled at the edge of his lips while the others avoided his nose and curled back upon themselves to curl around his eyes. The framed his chin, mouth, nose and all three eyes.

Cecil bared his teeth in a silent snarl and protectively pushed Raven against his chest.

"He is not a citizen of Night Vale, Mr Palmer – outsiders do not belong, they are not vaguely protected by the registration accords deep within the city council."

He glared down at his lap in defeat, recognising the truth in the official's statement and not liking it.

"Is there a way to have him written into the accords?" Cecil asked, as he relaxed slightly.

"It is an automatic process."

He sighed, he was the next Voice of Night Vale. As the prophesised Voice, he was somewhat protected from the intern's curse. All he had to do was raise his son like a Night Vale native and he would be able to protect himself soon enough. His tattoos returned to coil around his arms and chest.

"You are lucky to be able to keep him."

Cecil nodded, running a hand down Raven's downy, dark hair.

"What happens when I become the Voice of Night Vale?" inquired Cecil, as he watched the abandoned mine shaft pass the window. Trucks and people milled around outside in uniforms – an illusion to make it seem less abandoned and avert suspicion.

He contemplated and crossed his legs at the thighs, disturbing the lines of his pencil skirt, before answering,

"Amendments will be made, this case will be evaluated. Anything could happen."

The new father nodded and continued to stare out of the window.

The ride was in silence, from all but the weather.

The secret government official, from an organisation unknown, dropped them off at Cecil and now Raven's apartment complex.

Sighing, he pushed open the door and stepping inside. The sun was in the sky, but lowering. Red and purples and oranges permeated the sky. The void was slightly showing.

Ignoring the elevator, knowing that a Faceless Old Woman from floor 2 liked to get in and randomly drop it, Cecil took the stairs.

Five floors up and the door on the left was his home.

Raven rested his head on his father's collarbone, but looked up when they entered the apartment.

It was cosy and had a view of the lights in the sky, fabrics hung on the walls. A few clothes were strewn along the floor and his coffee table was glued to the ceiling by its feet.

Cecil called a soft greeting to the Faceless Old Woman, a blow of air against the back of his neck rose Goosebumps down his arms. He smiled and walked into his bedroom.

A single bed sat in the middle which Raven was placed down on.

He closed his curtains and toed of his shoes. Raven rocked slightly before collapsing into a deep sleep. Cecil giggled and slid on his socks into the kitchen. There he pulled out a loaf of bread and toasted a few slices. He then shook Raven awake, fed him and let his eyes slip closed.

He curled around Raven protectively.

"Goodnight Raven, goodnight."

 **This chapter dedicated to allietheepic7 because they have give me so many adorable ideas for later scenes.**


	5. A Sleepy Morning

Sleepily blinking, he yawned and sat up. Light permeated in to the room through the thin curtains and dust danced in its rays. Glancing around the room and not noticing anything drastically out of the ordinary, Raven slipped from between the covers, used to the draft that brushed his toes, and landed face first on top of the mattress that was on the floor. Nothing happened as he pushed himself to his knees. Behind him the blankets loomed over as they were raised and he was tugged into the warm. Tattooed arms wrapped around him tightly.

Raven huffed and poked his dad' chest, displeased at the murmured,

"Five more minutes."

He wriggled the bed – flopping his head on a partially eaten pillow case – and dug his cold toes into the strip of skin where his top had raised.

"I'm hungry," He addressed the tattooed eye as Cecil's other ones were closed in mock sleep, "Dad, I'm hungry." Purple eyes opened and, with a cheeky grin, Cecil pressed kisses to his son's chubby cheeks as he squealed and wriggled desperately.

"Good morning Raven." He rolled so Raven sat on his chest, smiling at the messy hair and flushed face.

"Can we have breakfast?" He hummed and gently tugged at a lock of black hair,

"Manners?" Raven pouted, sitting cross legged,

"Please can we have breakfast?" Cecil answered and hoisted him up as he stood.

A one bedroomed apartment in a mediocre high-rise with, he noted as he walked into the corridor, unidentifiable liquids oozing down the walls from the apartment above and faulty air conditioning that went on and off as it pleased. The sun outside may be hot, but you were either frozen or melting.

It was no place to raise a five year old.

But last time he'd applied for another job outside of the radio station to boost his income Station Management had threatened to fire him no matter if he was prophesised to be the next Voice.

Raven had climbed onto the sides and was pulling down bowls and cups while Cecil worked around him to begin their day. Now properly listening to his description of the dream he had had.

Things weren't great now, but they'd get better soon.

IMPORTANT!  
Cecil is Jewish in Canon, however I didn't find out until after I started and while I don't want to erase this part of himself, I also do to make writing easier. Can you tell me whether or not Cecil should be Jewish as I really cannot decide after months of debating it.  
Thanks.


End file.
